


savages

by bubblewrapstargirl



Series: mad, bad and dangerous to know [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Northern Campaign, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Jon Snow, Dark Robb Stark, Dark Theon Greyjoy, F/M, Gen, Jon Snow Doesn't Join the Night's Watch, Marriage of Convenience, Murder, Politics, Pregnancy, Robb Lives, Robb Stark is King in the North, Theon Greyjoy remains with the Northern Army, War of the Five Kings, Wargs & Greenseers, marriage by capture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2020-12-24 18:35:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21104099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl
Summary: There is a beast in every man, and it stirs when you put a sword in his hand.Robb and Jon grow up with a little more wolf blood, and Theon has always been a pirate. The boys aren't really dark, just a bit more vicious and ruthless and determined than in canon.*Updates daily, chapter count may go up.*





	1. heathens

The lady visibly shivered as she approached, unused to being outside of whatever scant warmth the Twins can offer after evenfall. Robb stood still and stoic, resolved. It was at his insistence that they wed out here, in a wild overgrown thicket, a clearing hacked out by his most untested young foot soldiers. His men light the barely tamed grove with torches held aloft, grim-faced in the dark. They do not care about this wedding, forced out of this young, untested green boy that presumed to lead them in this campaign to restore Ned Stark and his daughters to their rightful place in the North. They only smile at the thought of the merriment to come after, a last excuse to drink and frolic before the bloodshed.

As a price for crossing the Twins, Robb’s lady mother had brokered a betrothal for Robb, with one of old Lord Walder’s many daughters. Forced to wed that cankerous old man’s get, for passage across a bridge seemed a very steep price to pay. But having no betrothed despite being almost of age, Robb could not refuse.

“Lord Robb can have his pick after the war,” the lecherous old man had said, with a disturbing smile and lick of his crusty, ancient lips.

Robb had tilted his head, an unconscious imitation of his direwolf, and replied softly; “Why wait? Best to get it over with. Every lord needs an heir.”

Thus he had picked the most beautiful, demure girl. Robb would have no patience for a headstrong, coy wife full of sneering commentary or bold ideas. So he ignored the most slatternly dressed, and the saucy looks from the most comely, and had instead chosen the pale and trembling Lady Roslin, half-hidden by her sisters or nieces. Robb allowed her to pick three ladies to attend upon her at Riverrun, and she had duly done so, with hollow, dewy eyes. She was afraid of him, he thought. A quick look at the male kin she shared her father’s home with, told him why. None seemed especially honourable nor kind. Weak-chinned, gangly and unwashed, that was a summary of House Frey's men. Thank the gods Lord Frey hadn’t produced daughters of the same. The least unsavoury Frey men were at most benign and apathetic and bland.

The Northmen seemed comically fierce in comparison. Robb’s men were hungry for blood and revenge, but if all Robb could offer was a night of revelry and maiden’s blood, sobeit. Robb had heard tell that the Freys thought the Northmen savages, with barbaric, bloodthirsty gods. But they were not the ones thrusting young maidens at every lord that wanted safe passage across the Trident.

“If the Freys think us uncouth, let them,” said Robb in a wolfish snarl, “Let us show old Walder what he has bought with this alliance. There was a weirwood found in the woods, was there not?”

“Hidden in a deep thicket, my lord,” came the reply, “Found by Torrhen Lake while hunting. Sight of the gods gave him luck, and the party came back with two does and a young buck.”

“Then let the gods grant me luck in my marriage,” said Robb, “And let it be known that a Stark of Winterfell only weds beneath the sight of a weirwood.”

He does not make it a request, but a requirement, when the Rivermen bristled, and argued that the deed must be done in their perfumed Sept.

“I am a Stark of Winterfell,” Robb barked imperiously, “And I will wed before the old gods or not at all.”

“What care have I, where the girl is wed?” said Lord Walder, ending the argument, “So long as there’s a bedding, heh.”

Thus came three days of frantic preparations for a feast, which his mother spent stitching the snarling wolf’s head of House Stark to the nicest cloak she could find, adorned with tiny beads and pearls taken from her own dresses, with which to welcome Lady Roslin into their family. This will chiefly be his mother’s task, now the parley with the Freys was done. Because Robb had a war to plan, with Jon and Theon, and Lords Bolton, Umber and Karstark. The latter being the one to preside over his wedding, as his closest kin of note.

“Stark and Karstark are one blood,” said Robb, “And it would be my honour if you could lead us in our vows, Lord Karstark.”

His mother nodded proudly at that, allowing Robb to square his shoulders, in assurance of his attempts at political posturing. It seemed his efforts were not in vain as Lord Karstark puffed up like a proud pigeon at his words, and continued to cluck about it up until the moment itself.

“Who comes before the old gods this night?” his deep voice rumbled out into the night, like a roll of thunder in the still forest.

Lady Roslin flinched at the sombre tone, and not for the first time, Robb pitied her. He had barely had the time to acknowledge her existence, so keen were his lords to focus on their strategy for breaking the Lannister hold on Riverrun. Robb resolved to do better, to be kinder to his new lady. She was to be his wife in mere moments, with vows that will chain them for a lifetime. Robb had always longed for a marriage as harmonious and successful as his parent’s; mutual love built upon respect, with healthy babes to follow. It was less than most men get or deserve, and Robb will certainly not find it, if he cannot be gentle with his timid new bride here at the very beginning, when she was most needy for comfort.

“La- uhum, Roslin, of the House Frey… comes here to be wed,” the rigid Lord Stevron stumbled, still uncomfortable with the unfamiliar vows. He was stood in what should be a father’s place. But Lord Frey was too frail and infirm to attend the wedding personally at this late hour, let alone accompany his daughter to the newly dubbed heart tree through this treacherous, makeshift godswood, along the barely cleared path.

There were snuffles of amusement from the Freys, men who hold no reverence for these traditional words. But the Northmen were solemn and still, quiet in their devotion to the old ways.

“A woman grown, true-born and noble… she comes to beg the blessings of the old gods,” Lord Stevron continued.

The minor error resulted in a frisson of unrest, as the Northmen shifted and glared. Uneasy, Lord Stevron faltered, crumpling in on himself.

“Who comes to claim her?” he completed his part in the ritual in little more than a whisper.

Lady Roslin was clutching her brother's arm with a spidery grip, her fingers pale on his dark doublet. Robb wondered what her petite fingers would feel like, gripping his cock just as firmly.

Taking his place beside his distant kin, Robb felt the bloody weirwood leaves crunch satisfactorily underfoot, as he came to stand, tall and broad-shouldered, flush with the bloom and arrogance of youth.

“Robb of House Stark, heir to Winterfell. Who gives her?”

Lord Stevron met Robb’s eyes warily, as he rattled off his own name and the details of his kinship to Roslin. Then he took her pale hand, and transferred her rigid grip to Robb’s own. They knelt, still holding hands, in the damp and pungent earth. Robb prayed for the health of his father and sisters, and for Roslin to be with child by the time they left Riverrun to march on King’s Landing.

When at last they rose, and Lord Karstark asked if Roslin would take him as her husband, the girl’s voice was lost in a sudden gust of wind, rustling through the trees. She was forced to repeat herself. With a lick of his lips, Robb also confirmed his assent, already unbuckling his heavy cloak. Lord Stevron took Roslin’s Frey colours, leaving her shivering in shades of green, before Robb settled the fox-fur cloak about her shoulders, the snarling wolf heavy on her back.

The trees sang out once more, and Robb was wed.

The feast that followed was filled with awkward silences for Robb, who was seated next to his nervous new bride and forced to make conversation with her ratty brothers. He thanked the gods that he had insisted Jon joined them at the top table, despite his mother’s hateful looks.

Mother had hated when Lord Stark insisted that Jon was too young for the Watch; that the Wall would still be standing in ten or twenty years, should Jon still choose that path later in life. But a boy of fourteen was not needed at the Wall, and Robb required the company in Winterfell. It was an upheaval enough that the girls would be gone. And after Bran’s accident, Jon’s assistance was even more in need, to distract Rickon, who had taken to trailing after Robb, wailing. Lady Stark had been too distracted by her grief to bother with Jon, and after Bran had almost been set upon by a catspaw, she had far more pressing matters to attend to.

Robb had been alone in Winterfell when he had called the banners, relying on the advice of Maester Luwin, Jon and Theon all at once. Robb had wanted Jon to remain behind, to guard Bran and Rickon, but he would not hear of it.

“There are little enough opportunities for a bastard to gain honour,” said Jon, “Would you really seek to deprive me, of what might be my only chance to prove my worth to House Stark, and our father?”

Robb had wanted to insist that Father knew how loyal and good Jon was, that the stain of bastardy did not mean he was lacking in virtue, but the words stuck in his throat. If Father truly knew Jon’s worth, why had he never sought to legitimize Jon? It was well known throughout the Seven Kingdoms that Father and the King were as brothers. Why did Lord Stark not press the advantage of that connection, if not because he too believed that bastards were inherently deceitful? But Robb and Jon had shared lessons since they were boys, had slept side by side during stormy nights, played and fought together, welcomed their siblings into House Stark together. Robb did not see Jon as anything less than his brother, but at that moment he was forced to acknowledge that the North did not feel the same way. So he had acquiesced, and talked no more of Jon remaining behind. His brother deserved to earn glory on the battlefield, and perhaps one day be acknowledged publically for the Stark blood that flowed through his veins.

Robb exchanged tight smiles with his brother across the wedding banquet table, as they both tried to ignore the grotty surroundings of the Twins as they stuffed themselves with the plentiful, if lacklustre, feast.

“Would you care to dance, my lord?” asked his timid bride, in her first instance of bravery.

She was truly beautiful, even with her straight, mouse brown hair. She had big, pale blue eyes, and pouty lips. Her skin was pale like porcelain, and as Robb looked at her without answering, her cheeks flushed an attractive shade of pink.

“Aye, my lady, though with the stipulation we dispense with those formalities from now on; we are wedded, and should call one another by our names. Roslin.” Robb suggested, with a quirk of his lips into a one-sided smile.

“As it please you my- Robb,” she corrected herself.

Robb offered her his hand, and they treaded the boards together gracefully, until the men began to call for the bedding. Roslin was ripped from his hold as Robb was pawed at by raucous Frey girls, shrieking and giggling as they unlaced his breeches and yanked at his jerkin.

Roslin was thrust into their guest bedchamber fully naked but for her slippers. Her smallclothes were ripped apart at one edge, still trailing from one of her slender ankles. She looked like a maiden that had been ravaged during a riot, or by Ironborn pillagers. The terrified look in her watery eyes only accentuated the image. Her hair was not long enough to cover her nipples, and Robb got a good look at Roslin's heaving breasts while she remained folded forward, her hands covering her maidenhood. She squeaked to find him gawking at her, then gained the courage to race to the featherbed, and under the heavy covers to hide herself.

Robb had fared better; he swiftly tugged off his boots and breeches, then joined his new bride.

Roslin wept while he fucked her. They were silent, pearly tears, glimmering on her face like jewels in the light of the single lit candle. Robb tried to go slowly. He hushed her with gentle noises, and kissed her lips very softly. She responded to his kisses after he lay still above her, so he deepened them, tentatively exploring her mouth with his tongue. He brushed one of her nipples with his thumb, and Roslin broke the kiss to let out a pretty moan. Robb did it again, rubbing the tender spot with his thumb until she began to rock a little. His hips responded in kind, rolling firmly as he fucked into her again, this time paying attention to her breasts with both his hands.

Robb nibbled on her pale neck with his teeth, because her panting mouth would not allow their lips to meet. Roslin whimpered and whined as Robb fucked her through the night, knowing he would have no better opportunity to seed an heir in her. He would take her as far as Riverrun, and leave her there once they had broken the siege. They would have to take advantage of the time that afforded them to keep coupling, but once the fighting began he might be too exhausted to do ought but sleep. The sooner he had an heir, the better. House Stark’s position needed to be as secure as Robb could possibly make it.


	2. brutes

The fighting was fierce, and Robb bloodied his sword quicker than he had anticipated. He fought for the North, for his father and sisters, and it was always the thought of what their fates may be, were he to fall, that gave his sword arm strength and his heart the determination to go on. Houses in the North had gone extinct before, including branches of House Stark, like the Greystarks of the Wolf’s Den (which became White Harbour some years after they were culled). Robb did not want to be remembered as the Stark that lost Winterfell.

Some hope remained, with Bran and Rickon tucked safely away in Winterfell under Maester Luwin’s careful eye. But should Robb fall on the battlefield, his men could not rally round Bran, who was half a world away. However, Robb survived his first battle, and the ones that came after. They took Riverrun, and broke apart the Kingslayer’s army, slaughtering the majority and scattering the rest into the four winds. The man himself was caught and shackled, and Theon took delight in spitting into the disgraced knight’s face.

“I’ve sent thousands of men to their deaths,” Robb lamented, as they stood atop the smouldering ruin of the battlefield.

“Men will sing songs of their bravery for centuries to come,” Theon predicted, with his usual brash disregard for anything and everything.

Jon scowled heavily at that; his heavy Northern features making the look fierce indeed. He pulled on the reins of his horse and answered severely: “Yes, but the dead won’t hear them,” then rode away without glancing back.

Theon rolled his eyes, and muttered something about pouty bastards, which Robb pretended he did not hear. He had no wish to quarrel with Theon just then, even though privately, he agreed with Jon. But Theon had fought bravely at Robb’s side throughout the battle, even though this was not his war.

Unlike Robb and Jon, Theon had every right to remain safely in Winterfell when they moved South. And he might have, had Robb not apologised to him profusely, for shouting at Theon, during the incident with the wildlings who almost took Bran hostage. Robb had allowed fear to make him rash, and he regretted his ungrateful words afterward. Now they were on solid footing once more, and he had enough enemies without alienating his oldest friend, save Jon.

Robb had not been ignorant of the lack of trust the Lords of the North placed in his chosen allies. Some, like the quietly menacing Lord Bolton and the brash, outspoken Lord Karstark, openly disparaged them.

“There are some that might wonder at your choice of companions,” hissed Lord Bolton, “Well do I know the proclivities of bastard boys, the gods having cursed me with an unruly bastard son of mine own. I do not doubt your noble heart, Lord Robb... but bastards grow jealous of their brother’s good fortune, and the Ironborn have no honour to forswear to begin with.”

“If you knew my heart, Lord Bolton, you would know why I cannot so easily set aside my brothers,” said Robb, “For I count them both as such. Jon shares my blood, and has ever been as honourable as my lord father. Theon has proven himself equally loyal. If his choice to take up arms for the North is not enough, you should know that Theon saved my brother Bran’s life, when it was threatened by wildlings.”

Lord Bolton allowed his eyebrows to raise minusculy at that.

“Indeed?” he said dryly, but no words of apology for his assumptions followed.

Robb tried not to notice that many of his bannermen seemed to feel the same way. In truth, Robb had never seen Jon and Theon so united, but they banded together now, often eating with the guardsmen-turned-soldiers of Winterfell, rather than the motley band of lordlings that comprised of the sons of the noblest Houses, along with Lady Maege’s daughter Dacey.

And despite his efforts to show that Jon and Theon were trusted allies, Robb’s attempts to convince his men left much to be desired. His brothers' opinions simply did not hold weight with men like the Greatjon or Lord Bolton. Though he was skilled at strategy, when it came to the battlefield at least, Robb could sense his diplomacy was rather lacking. It was true that Father did not hold with deception, falsehoods or spying, and thus he had never employed trickery to uncover information about his enemies that might sway them. His mother had told Robb that she was ultimately unsurprised that Father had not fared well in the Capital, amongst the Lannisters.

“Your father is a most honourable man, but he frequently mistakes others to hold honesty and duty with the same regard he does. He would not think to look for trickery and malice in men who proclaim to be his allies. You cannot afford to be so, Robb. Do not look upon Lord Walder as kin, simply because you took his daughter to wife. Do not believe the Northmen will not turn on you, if you fail them. The lure of Lannister gold may be stronger than you ever believed possible,” she warned him.

Robb took her words to heart. When next he strategized with his lords, his gaze lingered on the men and scant women in his tent. He wondered who here would betray him to Lord Lannister by handing his son back to him, if the price was handsome enough.

So when news of Ned Stark’s death at the hand of the petulant, whining bastard King Joffrey reached them, through the haze of grief and fury that came, Robb knew what he must do.

“Ser Jaime of House Lannister, vile cur, faithless man without honour, you have been found guilty of the crimes of oathbreaking, kingslaying and adultery, the last of which has resulted in your black traitorous blood sitting the Iron Thone. For these crimes, I, Robb of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and King in the North, do sentence you to die. Do you have any last words?”

The once golden knight was still filthy with mud, and he looked a wretched sight, pathetic and bitter as he gazed up at Robb with uncloaked hatred.

“Robert Baratheon was a drunkard who beat and raped his wife, a man as unworthy of kingship as the mad man who came before him,” proclaimed the Kingslayer loudly, “And Aerys Targaryen placed wildfire below the city of King’s Landing, hidden caches everywhere. He ordered them lit when the war finally reached his door. I killed his pyromancer and then the Mad King himself to stop him, and I have been hated since, for the act of saving the lives of thousands of men, women and children. I go now to death, safe in the knowledge of what awaits all you Northern fools. The rains will weep o’er your halls, with not a soul to hear.”

Robb sneered at the pitiful threat, and nodded to the guardsmen holding the belligerent Kingslayer in place. The revelation about the wildfire was a consideration for another time. Now was the time for justice. As the Kingslayer was shoved to his knees and placed at the block, Robb caught sight of his mother’s pale face. She had begged him not to do this. To consider a trade instead, for Sansa and Arya, and if not that, the chance for Ser Jaime to take the Black. But the Wall was a thousand miles away, and Robb could not guarantee that the honourless knave would not escape his captors, or be set free for promised gold. No, let the Southroners feel the sting of winter for once; the loss of his beloved son would be a blow to Lord Tywin, one he might not recover from. Let the rancid Queen feel the pain of loss. Their horrid son took his father; so let that son lose his own. It was a brutal justice, like for like, one more ancient than even the Starks usually abided by. But it was one Robb secretly relished in.

He would forever be remembered as the man who slayed the Kingslayer. Robb drew his sword, and in one clean sweep, relieved Ser Jaime Lannister of the burden of breath. His head rolled across the wooden dais erected solely for this purpose. In a move reminiscent of their youth together, Theon strode forward and gave the decapitated head a good, solid kick. It rolled and bounced with a wet squelch.

“Send his bones to King’s Landing,” said Robb, “Let the Queen look upon her lover once more, and rue her choice not to keep to her husband’s bed.”

“I’ll take it,” said Jon, “If twenty good men will accompany me. I have two sisters to collect.”

Robb met his eyes, and saw the burning determination there. Ghost was at Jon's feet. His muzzle was still stained red with blood, from the Lannister men he had felled, and the corpses he had feasted on with his brother, Robb’s own Grey Wind. Robb was proud of the fear he and his younger brother were capable of inducing, when they stood side by side with their wolves, or rode into battle together. When at last Robb nodded, loathe though he was to part ways with his brother, Jon ducked down and petted Ghost fondly.

“He’ll have to remain here,” said Jon, “His coat will be spotted from miles away, and rather give the game up.”

“Aye,” said Robb, “If he’ll consent to it.”

The wolves had a will of their own. But when in the thick of the fighting, Robb had felt connected to Grey Wind in a manner he could not explain. He only knew that his sense of smell seemed heightened, and the taste of blood seemed to fill his mouth, even though he had neither inflicted nor received a wound which resulted in blood upon his lips. It was only after, when he sat by a brazier and watched Ghost and Grey Wind contentedly gnawing on dismembered limbs, did Robb begin to suspect that he was sharing some of Grey Wind’s experience of the battlefield. Fear kept him from asking Jon if he felt the same connection with Ghost.

They had enough to contend with, without tales of skinchanging and greensight clouding the opinions of the Southron Rivermen who had taken up their cause, since they left the North through the Neck. So Robb kept his peace, and did not insult Jon by insinuating that he might not be safe without Ghost. Jon was a castle-trained swordsman, one who had proven himself a dozen times over.

“You’re to stay with Robb, and heed his orders,” Jon told his direwolf sternly, “And I’ll be back with Sansa and Arya before you know it.”

Ghost opened his bloodied maw in a silent yawn, before darting forward to lick Jon’s face lovingly. He left a smear of blood behind. Jon sighed heavily, pushing the enthusiastic beast away in fond exasperation. Then Jon rubbed at his wet face, which only resulted in the red mark spreading into a more prominent mess.

“I’d wash your face if I were you Snow,” said Theon with his usual courtesy, “You look as though you’ve been giving the Lord’s Kiss to a girl amid her monthly courses.”

Jon blanched, while Robb tried very hard not to laugh in disgust. He had just beheaded a man, after all, and before long they would suffer Lord Tywin’s vengeance, in whatever form it took. That thought was enough to sober Robb, and they left the dais together, the Kingslayer’s mud-soaked body remaining in a heap where it had fallen.

When the time came for Jon to depart with the crate containing the bones, (the body stripped down to breeches and padded undershirt, because Theon had wisely noted that gold armour could be melted down into gold dragons easily enough, and weren’t the Lannisters rich enough already?) Robb was given the unwelcome task of ordering Theon to go with him.

“You want me gone from your side, on this foolish errand of Snow’s?” said Theon, “How the brooding bastard expects us to find a way inside the Red Keep, the Drowned God alone knows.”

Robb winced, and with a heavy heart he handed the latest raven he had received from Winterfell to Theon.

“The Ironborn have been spotted, reaving along the Stony Shore, and have already plundered Deepwood Motte,” Theon read with disbelief, “But- my father…”

He swallowed thickly, and Robb averted his eyes to the flagon of ale clutched in his hand when he realised the watery look in Theon’s eyes was not a trick of the candlelight alone.

Theon swallowed thickly, and began again.

“He knows what this would mean for me. And yet he does it regardless.”

There were no words of comfort Robb could offer him. How could he begin to sympathise with Theon’s situation? Robb had spent his entire childhood in Winterfell’s safe embrace, sure in the love of his mother and father and the adoration of his younger siblings.

The one blight had been his mother’s persistent vitriol toward Jon. Robb had learnt always to take the blame for any petty incident of tomfoolery or accident that Jon caused, as a way to shield his brother from his mother’s wrath. Jon had learnt that a bastard’s childhood was short. He stopped japing with Robb, stopped playing tricks like the time Robb covered Jon in flour so he could scare the others. Stopped playing at knights and soldiers when Robb stupidly pointed out in a game that Jon could not play as the Lord of Winterfell. He wondered, even now, if Jon had ever forgiven him for ruining their playful antics with the sourness of reality.

Theon was another matter entire. At least Jon had siblings and a father that loved him. Theon had no one save Robb, though he chose to push Jon away rather than befriend him. Still, with a common enemy to fight, there was at least a detente between them now. Robb hoped it would be enough to keep them from one another’s throat while on their mission to rescue the girls from King’s Landing.

“You see why you must be gone, safely away from here, when I tell the Northmen of this,” said Robb, and Theon only nodded, "Besides, if anything should happen to Jon you know Sansa and Arya's faces as well as he. And the girls would not trust some strange Northman to lead them to safety."

Robb hoped Theon would draw some comfort from that, being entrusted with such an important task that few others could undertake.

Jon was not pleased by the addition to his stealthy party, but he did not argue when Robb gave a brisk account of the proceedings. His Stark grey eyes shone with pity, and Robb trusted him not to rise to Theon’s bait when the older man lashed out in his anger, in the coming days. 

The camp felt solemn and mirthless without his brothers at his side. Ghost held fast to Jon’s orders, obedient for now, though his continued presence was not guaranteed when the direwolf realised how far Jon intended to travel without him. Grey Wind kept him distracted for the moment, inviting him to tussle with playful nips at his ears and one memorable time even opening his entire mouth to encase Ghost’s muzzle, like a bizarre wolf kiss. Ghost took great affront to his, and chased Grey Wind around the encampment, bounding so fast he caught up with his swifter brother, and took a sizable hunk of fur from Grey Wind’s tail as revenge for the slight.

The tumbling wolves brought laughter back to the Northmen, who had been more solemn since the twin blows of his father’s death and news of the Ironborn raids upon the North. They held a meeting, to discuss the potential possibilities. But Robb could not stomach the idea of returning home, not when they had won each battle they had fought so far. They had sent Lord Tywin’s troops running, and decimated Jaime’s. That had to count for something, even though his mother had warned him not to hope for success in her mission of an alliance with Stannis. Though Renly was the poorer choice, he had the bigger army, and the support of the Tyrells. There was much Robb could do with such an ally. Until it was confirmed that neither of them would tie their cause to his, he kept the potential of it as a knife in his belt.

“We cannot sit idly by while the Ironborn take our wives and daughters hostage,” insisted Lord Glover, “We need to march home and root them out.”

“My lords, my lords,” Robb called over the din of his advisors, “Your words have been heard, your grievances shared. I too have family that I risk the lives of, should we not march North and take back what is rightfully ours.”

“So we are to head back?” asked Lady Mormont.

“If we lose this ground now, we may not have the chance to take it again before winter comes,” said Robb, “You named me for your King because you trusted in my judgement, and my ability to lead you. Let me lead you now, though it pains me to leave the North protected by only those we left behind.”

“Some that were left are more capable than others,” said Lord Bolton, in his disturbingly subdued voice, “I have spoken to you of my bastard before, your grace.”

“Yes…” Robb replied, drawing the word out as he wondered what the pitiless Lord of the Dreadfort was about to suggest to him.

“Give me leave to write to him, your grace, and I will have him gather the forces of the North to the Dreadfort, to later fall upon the Ironborn, who will instead be looking to Winterfell as the greatest threat,” Lord Roose suggested, “My son does not share the noble blood of two great lineages, as with your brother, Jon Snow. Ramsay is as base as he is cruel, but cruelty has its place in this world, your grace. Let him fall upon the Ironborn scourge like a plague falls upon a city, and he will clear them out.”

Robb saw the light of ambition in Roose’s pale blue eyes, and remembered that the man had no heir since his trueborn son had died. Lord Walder had tried to foist a bride upon him, but Lord Bolton had merely promised to give the idea great merit on the way back North, once the war was won.

“And should your son prove successful, you would have me legitimise him as a Bolton, and your heir,” Robb surmised.

“My main hope is to free the North of these brutish invaders,” said Lord Roose with a mirthless smile, “But of course, if my king chose to bless my House with an heir, I would not object.”

“Of course,” said Robb diplomatically, and did not believe a word. Instead, he remembered his father’s old adage; _‘everything before the word but is horseshit’._

Still, if the hunger of ambition would urge the bastard of the Dreadfort to clear the North of Ironborn, Robb could not object to that. So he granted Lord Bolton his permission to attempt it.


	3. schemers

Robb received a raven from Riverrun, informing him of good fortune; Roslin was with child. Though he had expended considerable energy in the hopes of such, it still came as a surprise to Robb. He had not expected to marry at this age, nor that fatherhood would rush to greet him on its heels. But it seemed the gods saw fit to replicate his father’s path, with Robb. A wife for an alliance, and a babe to greet him at the close of a war. Robb shivered, and hoped he would not be forced to bring home the bones of his sisters, as Father had with Aunt Lyanna.

They had made inroads into the Westerlands, taking the Crag with less resistance than had been expected. Robb had received his first injury in the battle there, an arrow wound that required bed-rest to heal. He was tended to by the daughter of the castle, the sweet Jeyne Westerling, who sent him dewy, doe-eyed looks of longing. He wondered if Jeyne was in awe of his new status as royalty, or his reputation on the battlefield, or if she had merely been pressed into gaining his favour by her shrewish mother. Robb knew better than to dally with Tywin Lannister’s bannermen.

When Jeyne was bold enough to lean forward and kiss him one night, Robb indulged himself for a long moment. It had been months since he had enjoyed the taste and feel of a woman, and his hands roamed impertinently, squeezing and caressing as he went. Surely, this too was a repetition of his father’s path in Robert’s Rebellion. Perhaps he too had been bereft of his usual companions, longing for home but knowing it held only ghosts. Robb would return to Winterfell with a bastard of his own, if he was not careful. It was only Jon’s furious face, swimming in his mind, that stayed his hand. It might cause a wedge between brothers that could not easily be mended, and Robb needed Jon’s continued devotion and loyalty more than he needed to settle between the soft arms of a woman.

Robb pulled away from Jeyne’s willing lips, and sent her from his sight.

“If you should return, my lady, do not come here alone,” said Robb, “I am a wedded man, and nothing good would come of a union between us.”

She dipped into a deep curtsey, unable to meet his eyes, and scurried from the room like a frightened hare. Once she had gone, Robb flopped back into his sickbed and groaned. Cursing his honour, he took himself in hand and brought himself to a perfunctory, unsatisfactory peak.

He was glad of his fortitude come morning, when the maester of the castle spoke of his mother’s return. She was to be far later than expected, because at her back was the might of the Reach, headed by the Tyrells. Overjoyed, Robb gathered his lords so they could discuss this unexpected development. With news of Renly Baratheon’s death, it was expected that the Stormlords who had rallied round him would flock to the remaining Baratheon brother. But that the Tyrells would seek to align with the Northern cause made no sense. All Robb knew of them was their dedication to House Targaryen during Robert’s Rebellion. That they would back Renly’s gross bid for power spoke volumes. The Tyrells chose to bet upon the winning horse, the one that would allow them to ride beside in glory.

But if their ultimate goal was to crown Margaery as a Queen, it would not be in the North. Robb suspected that their intention would be to pressure him to break his marriage for such. With the might of the Reach, under commanders such as Randyll Tarly, he might have done so. But not now; not with his unborn heir at stake. Roslin may well owe her continued position as his Queen, to the babe slumbering in her belly. Robb would go to any length to ensure she never discovered that. If Roslin knew how little Robb cared for this alliance with the Freys, she might never grow to care for him. And a harmonious household was all Robb longed for now, after these long, arduous months of war.

But that was a long way off yet. The Tyrells eventually arrived at the Crag with huge fanfare; a riot of blue banners and a mass of silver-clad knights. The sight of so many mounted men near took Robb’s breath away. His mind whispered to him warnings of a siege. However, no defensive lines were taken, and tents were erected rather than catapults. His squire, Roslin’s full-blood brother Olyvar, outfitted him in his polished armour, and together with his guard of warriors, Robb rode out to meet them.

Robb rode with the Smalljon on his right, Dacey Mormont on his left. They were met by his mother, still accompanied by Ser Wendel Manderly, Ser Perwyn Frey, Lucas Blackwood, and Robin Flint, but now joined by a very tall knight Robb did not know. Of the Tyrell party, the most important seemed to be an extremely fat man, comically done up in the most pompous knightly regalia Robb had ever seen. This priffing peacock was joined by a man in armour decorated in the crowned stag of House Baratheon, and a stern, bald man with dark armour and an even darker scowl. Intrigued, Robb assessed them all with curious eyes. His mother was more sombre than Robb remembered, dressed now in the black of mourning. The guards he had sent with her looked fatigued and stressed, which was to be expected.

“You are in the presence of Robb of House Stark, the Young Wolf, Lord of Winterfell, King in the North, and King of the Trident,” said Donnel Locke.

His warrior companions had fallen in number since three of them had died in the Whispering Wood, Patrek Mallister had been sent to try and entreat Lysa Arryn into finally bringing the Vale into this war, and Robb had sent the lordlings who still remained by his mother’s side, with her. Still, Robb was glad to have a handful of Freys at his back in this moment, along with Donnel, Dacey and the Smalljon, his new banner-bearer, Raynald Westerling, and Owen Norrey of the mountain clans, who had the fiercest glare Robb had ever seen. The Tyrells seemed suitably intimidated by his motley mob.

“Your grace, it is my honour to present Mace of House Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden and Lord Paramount of the Reach. He is joined by his son, Ser Loras Tyrell,” his mother said, indicating the man dressed in Baratheon armour, which Robb would be sure to enquire about later, “and Randyll of House Tarly, Lord of Horn Hill.”

“Well met, my lords,” said Robb, “Will you take bread and salt from our hosts, House Westerling, and allow me to find rooms for the most prominent in your party in the keep? You have had a long journey. Let us feast together tonight, and leave all talk of war until the sun rises.”

“Most generous, most generous indeed,” said the fat Lord Tyrell, “We are most delighted to meet you at last, your grace. And may I congratulate you on your many and varied victories-”

Robb met his mother’s eyes, widening his own ever so slightly in disbelief. Her tight smile seemed to answer that she knew exactly how ridiculous the pontificating man was, but that Robb must humour him, at least for now. Robb pasted a benign, disaffected smile on his face and hoped it looked convincing.

The party made their way into the keep, and Robb left the allocation of adequate rooms to the steward of the Crag, finally snatching a moment to greet his mother in private. But her steps were dogged by the large, brutish addition to her guardsmen, and Robb stopped abruptly in surprise.

“Please, take rest Lady Brienne,” said Mother, “I am in no danger with my son, the king.”

The woman, who was so tall and ugly that Robb had mistaken her for a man, blushed so ferociously that Robb could not help but feel his heart stir with pity. She lumbered off awkwardly, before Robb could thank her for her dedication to his mother’s safety. Lady Stark sighed heavily at the sight of the girl’s retreating back.

“Brienne has been very kind,” she explained, “She was sworn to Renly Baratheon’s Rainbow Guard, and very deservedly so. I never thought to see a woman wield a sword with such skill… and she was quite devoted to him. I swore her into my own service when he was murdered.”

“She is Brienne of Tarth?” Robb clarified, “But was she not accused of his murder?”

His mother closed her eyes, as though pained by the memory. Robb drew her along the warm corridor with a gentle touch at her elbow, leading her up to the solar he had commandeered for his own use. When at last he had urged her to take a seat, and pressed a glass of strongwine into her hand, Robb asked her for the truth of the matter.

“She only lives at my insistence on a proper trial. Loras Tyrell is her accuser. He is certain that she murdered his King, and if you believe the rumours, his lover. But I witnessed the death of Renly Baratheon with my own eyes, and had I not, I might have believed loyal Brienne capable, rather than accept the truth of the matter.”

Robb felt the frown on his face grow deeper in confusion. “Mother, please speak plainly. Who killed Renly?”

Mother took a deep sip from her wine before she answered; “Not who, but what. A shadow, that rose from the darkness and took an almost solid form, a black menace with the face of Stannis Baratheon. It was malleable, like ink, and grew a sword to better skewer Renly through the back.”

“Gods above,” said Robb in a quiet curse.

“You see now, why my word cannot easily be accepted by the Tyrells. Ser Loras was so incensed by Renly’s death, he killed three men in his rage. Two of them highborn, and all of them innocent of any crime. Brienne is a maid of seven-and-ten. I could not abandon her to his wrath.”

“No,” Robb mused, “No, your defence of her was honourable. But what are we to do with her now?”

“I have managed to convince the Tyrells that a trial, presided over by the King in the North, has the most possibility of impartiality. You were not there, and have no feelings toward Brienne for good or ill,” said Lady Catelyn, “I fear that we cannot proceed with this alliance without a trial.”

Robb rubbed at the scruff of his beard, which was growing wilder by the day, and wondered at his continued path to victory being so full of stones.

“If you have pledged me to it, I cannot refuse,” he agreed, “But I have no real experience of such. Dealing with the complaints of the smallfolk seems very petty in comparison.”

His mother reached over the space between them and clutched his hand, lending him her strength, while Robb pondered what he knew about trials for the highborn. He would require two other judges, and to be impartial it was necessary that they not be men sworn to him. His gut told him to name two Northmen and be done with it. Lord Bolton seemed practically born to sentence other men to death. But the fate of a young woman, one seemingly dedicated to his lady mother, hung in the balance. Robb needed to be smarter than his father, and political about his appointments. He would take advantage of Lord Tarly’s presence, and their current encampment in the Westerlands. If a men from the North, the Reach and the West were able to reach a conclusion in a trial it might go some way to convincing the men that those three Kingdoms might come to common accord elsewhere.

“Tell me now, how you managed to convince the Tyrells to treat with us,” said Robb, “Surely, it would have been better for them to try their luck with the Lannisters? Stannis is not the forgiving sort, and he had given all indication he will fall upon King’s Landing shortly. The Lannisters would be glad of their help.”

“Desperate for it, I should think,” said Mother, “But surely, you have received word that Sansa is lost? Gone missing during a riot of King’s Landing, most likely torn to shreds by hungry smallfolk.”

Here his mother was forced to stop with a tremendous sob. Robb took the now empty glass from her rigid fingers and clutched both her hands. He had heard of such, but hoped that was a sign Jon and Theon had succeeded in their mission. He told this to his mother, whose mouth hung open in surprise, her eyes gleaming with a glimmer of hope.

“May the Seven protect them, if it is so. Oh my sweet daughter…” she lamented.

Robb did not wish to be impertinent, but he was growing impatient, knowing he had scant hours with which to prepare before his parley with the Tyrell party.

“And this made an impact with the Tyrells?” he pressed her.

“Of course,” said Mother, “Sansa was Joffrey’s betrothed, was she not? If the Lannisters could not keep her safe, how well would Lady Margaery fare? Mace Tyrell desires nothing more than to make his daughter a Queen. Stannis has a wife, and hates House Tyrell besides. He would never favour them if he took the Throne. I managed to persuade them that Maragery would at least be safe in the Riverlands now that it is under your control.”

“You offered Edmure for Margaery,” Robb realised, proud that his mother had been able to see the advantages to be gained from Sansa’s disappearance, even through the haze of her grief, immediately after the terror of Renly’s murder.

“Some of the Stormlords have remained joined with the Reach,” she added, “Those loyal to Renly, who fear Stannis or the religion of his Red Witch enough to flee from him.”

Her words were like the poignant, fraught moment when a sword was first drawn, ready to spill blood, the intent to kill threatened, like the flash of a direwolf’s fangs.

“If Stannis wins the Iron Throne, we’ll have to topple him from it, won’t we?” Robb reluctantly realised.

He had not started this war with the intent to sit his arse upon that menacing chair. But who else would take it, if he did not? Edmure, his sweet-natured buffoon of an Uncle? The ridiculous Mace Tyrell? Absolutely not. The North had fought the hardest, and bled the most. If Stannis would not cede the North, he would lose the Seven Kingdoms entire, and Robb would be the one to ensure it.


	4. corsairs

“You’ll have to bring Sansa over here,” said Theon, surveying the prisoners with obvious distaste, “I can’t tell these fucking Lannisters apart. Too much cousin fucking in that family, or brother-sister fucking, just like the godless Targaryens.”

Jon sighed heavily, displeased at the idea of exposing Sansa to the sight of bloodshed. The Martell’s ship was stained with their fallen. He winced when he caught sight of a severed arm tangled in some rigging, like a gory testament to the savagery of naval battle. That dismembered limb gave him pause rather than simply agreeing, and he eventually dismissed the idea.

“Sansa doesn’t need to catch sight of this,” he said, “And any Lannister is worth a ransom; bring them both.”

The girls on the deck whined and whimpered, their pitiful tears designed to soften the heart of any man. Jon forced himself to remember how they had found Sansa; littered with bruises on her face and arms and stomach. Only some of which were gifts from the would-be rapers they had found her in the midst of. The rest were courtesy of the Kingsguard, on Joffrey’s orders. The fear these pampered highborn girls now felt, was nothing compared to the terror Sansa must have endured, all alone in the lion's den.

Evidently, one of them was brave enough to make the honourable choice. A slight slim girl in a pretty pink dress, rose to her feet and said;

“Please ser, I am the Princess Mrycella. Let my companions go and I will come with you willingly.”

“No-” hissed the other girl, remaining on her knees as she clutched onto the proclaimed Princess’ hand.

Though tearful, the girl on her feet seemed determined enough to go through with it, if her terms were accepted. Jon could not help but admire the steel in her spine, and hoped that Arya was showing similar levels of bravery, wherever she was. It had been disheartening indeed to learn that Sansa was alone in King’s Landing, and had been for months. But perhaps it was for the best; Arya was tough and resourceful. Jon had to believe that would be enough to keep her alive. At least this way, they had not been forced to take Sansa and formulate another plan to get to Arya, after the disappearance of one Stark girl had put the city on high alert. This way, they were able to use the chaos of the riot to cover Sansa’s distinctive hair with a hooded cloak, and squirrel her away to the docks. It must have been many hours before the Gold cloaks got the city under control. In that time Jon and Theon had bundled her onto the ship they had already secured passage on. The coin they had brought with them was ample enough to take them north, and the men they left at the docks with the ship ensured the captain could not betray them.

The wait to gain access to Sansa had been agonizing, as she did not often leave the Red Keep, and the ways in were fiercely guarded. Yet, when the time came, it went more smoothly than Jon thought possible. Sansa was terrified by her attackers of course, but Theon reached them before true damage could be done, and Jon was hot on his heels. Slaying four peasants between the two of them was a child’s game compared to the castle-trained warriors they were used to. The matter was over in mere moments. The only snag in their plan was the appearance of the Hound.

Jon remembered the brute from Winterfell, and he had heard worse stories about him besides. There were few men he would like to meet less in battle, and one of those was the Hound’s own brother. The huge man had raised his sword, and in a horrible, heart-stopping moment, Sansa had rushed between Jon and the naked blade.

“No, ser, I beg you, do not harm my brother,” she had begged.

“That’s no brother of yours, Little Bird,” the Hound had snarled, “Even I know what the Young Wolf looks like.”

“This is Jon, my half-brother,” said Sansa, and that was enough to have the Hound focused on Jon again.

Jon had never been more pleased to share his father’s Stark look than in that moment, nor that he had a certain infamy, as the bastard of Winterfell. It seemed enough to convince the scarred man that Jon meant Sansa no harm. And strange as it may seem, Joffrey’s sworn sword was mollified by that. He sheathed his weapon and stepped aside, leaving the passage back into the streets clear of his bulk.

“That’s all?” Theon had said suspiciously, “You’re not going to stop us?”

“And send the Little Bird back, to be beaten some more by the fucking shitstain we call King? No, boy,” the uncouth man said, “I’ll not stand in your way.”

Sansa had surprised them again, by worrying her hands together at her waist and whispering; “You could come with us.”

The Hound was so taken aback he could not answer, and Jon was equally stunned. He wanted to ask if she had hit her head and lost her wits, inviting a man sworn into the Lannister’s service to join the Northern campaign.

“I know you hold no love for the Lannisters,” she further implored, “And my brother Robb would look upon you kindly, for all you did to protect me.”

“I did nothing,” growled the Hound, “And besides, the Lannisters give me gold.”

“You love gold and wine and killing,” said Sansa firmly, “And the King in the North can provide you with ample supplies of all of it.”

Jon and Theon had felt a rare accord in those moments, as they shared looks of incredulity over Sansa’s sweet head. The Hound gathered his senses and replied in his usual brisk manner;

“Alright, Little Bird, I'll join you,” he said, “Though it seems like these two are fond enough of killing, to keep you safe.”

He indicated the carnage still dripping from the walls, that Jon and Theon had left in their wake, with a lazy sweep of his gauntleted hand. Sansa shrugged gracefully, stoutly refusing to look at the bloody corpses.

“I assume you have a fucking plan that involves leaving this stinking city,” the Hound barked at Theon and Jon, who were still gaping uselessly at the unexpected turn of events.

They rallied, and had Sansa bundled up in a borrowed cloak and the Hound’s distinctive face similarly hidden, before they set off at a sprint, racing to the docks. From there they had intended to sail north immediately, out of Blackwater Bay and on to the Saltpans, then Riverrun. It was Sansa who suggested otherwise.

“We were at the harbour to see off Princess Mrycella,” she said, “She is on the way to Dorne, to be betrothed into House Martell.”

“A Lannister-Martell alliance,” Jon murmured incredulously, “They cannot have expected that to last, with their history.”

“No,” Sansa mumbled, “The Queen was furious about it. She thought the Martells were going to kill Mrycella. If the Princess never reaches Dorne, she will blame the Dornish.”

“What are you suggesting, sweet Lady Sansa?” said Theon, “An assassination?”

Sansa paled, clearly horrified, and Jon felt like boxing Theon’s ears. Sansa had already admitted she had been present for Father’s execution. She did not need to be reminded of such, with his hasty words. At length, Sansa rallied and replied with her true plan; for the Starks to turn the tide on House Lannister, by taking their Princess hostage, as she herself had lately been held.

“Would such a thing be possible? Could this ship be capable of catching up to the Dornish?” Jon asked Theon, who had more experience with naval matters.

Theon had been the one to spy the Essosi trading vessel and decide it seemed the swiftest of the possible vessels available to bargain with. Jon was sure Theon was arrogantly basking in his choice as they were indeed making good time out of the capital. Theon found merit in Sansa’s plan, so they gave chase.

More gold was promised to the captain of the ship if he would agree to hunt the Dornish ship, which Sansa knew by sight, and was flying Martell colours besides. A battle at sea was not one that Jon had ever been trained for. He and Theon practiced sparring with the Hound and the crew, to better prepare themselves. They raced each other up and down the rigging, an echo of a child’s game that amused the crew, who placed bets on the outcome. It was almost like a repeat of their boyhood japes. And it was the first thing to cause Sansa to smile again. Because of that, Jon could not be too displeased when Theon proved the quicker.

When they finally found their quarry, it resulted in one of the bloodiest skirmishes Jon had ever been involved in, and that included battles with mounted men. War at sea involved explosions, the chaos of smoke and fire, sloshing waves, screams and shattering wood, men swinging from the rigging and shooting one another down from the Crow's Nest. It was a cacophony of noise and pain. Jon took an arrow to the arm, but the wound was clean and the ship’s barber did not think he would lose it. Sansa promised to sew him up, after all was said and done.

But for now, a rag sufficed to stem the bleeding while they assessed the prisoners.

Jon and Theon were the commanders of their small force, and they gathered the remaining men and ladies, on the deck of the enemy ship. They were soon joined by the captain, who now knew who they were. He had to, to believe their promises of riches and favour from the King in the North, if he delivered them safely to the Riverlands.

“I cannot feed all these men,” the old man admitted, “And they’ll weigh us down considerably.”

Theon shrugged, supremely unconcerned by this dire news.

“Name?” he barked at the nearest man, who spit toward him in answer. Theon backhanded him across the face and repeated the order. The man was fortunate to carry the name Martell, and Theon nodded, before moving on.

Jon grimaced, knowing what was to come after. If they left the smallfolk crew on the Martell’s ship live, they would eventually reach Dorne and describe their attackers. Northmen had a distinctive look and accent, and they had mentioned Sansa by name besides. The North did not need to make an enemy of the Martells if they could avoid it. And it was essential Queen Cersei was fooled into blaming the Dornish for Mrycella’s disappearance. That way, the budding potential Lannister-Martell alliance was literally dead in the water.

Only the girls caused them a problem, refusing to name themselves. Even Theon was reluctant to hit a girl. He looked to Jon with impatient irritation, and eventually the braver of the two girls offered herself up for the possibility for the others to live. So they came to the pregnant moment of one girl proclaiming her royal status, and another clutching her hand and begging her not to make such a bargain.

Theon huffed, and grabbed the standing girl by her long golden curls. She let out a terrified scream as he yanked her close and shook her cruelly by her hair.

“Shut up,” he snapped, “I don’t care what name your mother gave you. Even if you are Mrycella, all that means is that you’re a bastard. One born of incest, with a Kingslayer for a father.”

He lifted his other hand to reveal the short, sharp dagger shining there.

“Please- my mother will ransom for me-” the girl began to whimper, and Theon gave her another vicious shake.

“I told you to shut your mouth,” he said, “Bastard girls are good for one thing only, and all men know it. From this moment on, all that matters is your looks. Give me any more trouble and I’ll cut off your precious, pretty hair, Mrycella Waters. And I’ll keep it shorn. You’ll look like a little boy; fit only for a brothel. So be quiet, and do as I bid.”

With tears in her hate-filled eyes, Mrycella gave a jerky nod. Theon released her and she collapsed to her knees, shivering in terror. Had the captive men not been shackled in irons, Jon had no doubt many of them would have rushed at Theon, even unarmed. He himself had not thought Theon capable of such unveiled cruelty toward a girl, and he doubted he kept the disgust from his face.

Theon gave him a hard look, clearly knowing what was on Jon’s mind.

“This girl simpered and prattled about dresses while Sansa was beaten black and blue,” said Theon, “She’ll gain no favour from me.”

Jon nodded, unwilling to undermine Theon, while in full view of their captives. He did not wish to give any of them cause to attempt to wheedle favour from him, or drive a wedge between them. He did not agree wholly with Theon's methods, but he approved of the results. They were both loyal to Robb, and the plight of a few captives would not be enough to interfere with that. Theon stepped over to Jon's side, and spoke to the captain, ordering the man to have his crew gather the valuable highborn. They would need to be transferred to the other ship, before Jon and Theon executed the rest. It would be better for the others not to see it, lest they have a riot on their hands.

It did not stop the shouting and wailing from the remaining prisoners, and outright sobbing from the captive ladies, when they set fire to the Martell ship. They watched it drift pathetically out toward the horizon, before crumpling under its own weight as fire licked at the joints, and it was finally swallowed by the merciless sea.


	5. politicians

The Crag was not interesting enough that one couldn’t learn its secrets within mere weeks of being there. Now that their numbers were so great, Robb had ordered their troops spread out further. They cleared out the ruined castles of Castermere and Tarbeck Hall of spiders and stray dogs, and set about making them habitable. After Tywin Lannister's rage had fallen upon them, these castles housed only ghosts. 

Following the Battle of Oxcross, Robb had seized control of the Castamere mines, and the famous subterranean castle. When Theon returned from his current mission, Robb intended to name him for its lord, since it was clear that Balon Greyjoy no longer considered Theon his heir. Tarbeck Hall was only fit for an outpost, almost utterly destroyed by siege catapults. It would be better for Theon to tear it down, and build additional layers to Castermere than for Robb to gift it Tarbeck Hall to another lord.

Robb was beyond ready to push his campaign further into the west. But there was entirely no point moving on until negotiations with the Tyrells were brought to a satisfying conclusion. Ravens flew from Riverrun to the Crag and back again with alarming regularity. Robb had the Westerling's maester constantly held under guard, with men he trusted reading over the man’s words, in case some easily decoded message was being slipped to Tywin Lannister’s spies. The man may have ample opportunity to do so otherwise, with the sheer volume of demands the Tyrells made for the upcoming wedding and the terms of their alliance. Robb was rapidly losing patience, and saw his snappish responses take effect; Lord Tarly began to take measures to hurry the proceedings to their conclusion.

Robb was getting steady updates on the progress in the North also. Reports told florid tales of the Northern decimation of the Ironborn; the Boltons had banded together with men from House Manderly and the Flints to rid Torrhen’s Square of invaders. House Mormont had defended Bear Island, then gone on to break the Ironborn hold on Deepwood Motte, and defend the Stony Shore with the grateful Glovers. They were maintaining their lines along the shores. Meanwhile, the bulk of the Northern reserves were marching down to root out the Ironborn, who had taken to squatting in Moat Cailin. 

The Northmen were still led by Ramsay Snow, Roose Bolton’s bastard. He was apparently a good enough commander that the greybeards, guardsmen and farmers that remained in the North when the banners marched south, were keen to follow him. Robb was pleased enough that he wrote to Lord Bolton (who had lately marched on Harrenhal and taken it from the meagre Lannister forces stationed there), promising that Ramsay’s legitimization decree would be signed and ratified, once Moat Cailin was liberated.

Not that there were any inhabitants to liberate; the Moat had lain empty for hundreds of years. Robb intended to change that. With treasures won during his conquest, Robb would pay for repairs, and see that some deserving second or third son was granted the keep for an act of valour. His first thought had been to grant the keep to Jon. But after months of being separated from his sisters and youngest brothers, Robb was reluctant to sign any decree that meant Jon would not return home to Winterfell with him, after this grisly, hard-fought war.

Robb’s most troubling news came in regard to his younger brothers. When Robb received the raven from Maester Luwin admitting that Bran had left Winterfell, had ‘run away’ with the children of Howland Reed, Robb sank to his knees in despair. The direwolves seemed to sense his anguish, as Grey Wind nosed open the door to his solar, quickly followed by his quiet brother. Robb took the comfort that was offered from his unruly, four-legged brothers, muffling a heaved sob into Grey Wind’s soft fur. The direwolves surrounded him completely, and Robb buried a hand in the shaggy coat of each, and let himself mourn for the unknown fate of his crippled brother.

“Run away,” Robb hissed in incredulity, “Bran can’t even walk!”

Maester Luwin explained how Bran had taken to occasionally riding about on the back of the sweet idiot, Hodor, who could only speak his own name. Evidently, Bran had commanded Hodor to carry him out of Winterfell and northward. They were led by Jojen Reed, Lord Reed’s heir. Jojen’s elder sister Meera, Bran's direwolf Summer, and the wildling woman Robb had once spared accompanying. They were defended by a small contingent of Winterfell’s guardsmen, which was all that gave Robb hope that Bran might still be alive, despite the bandits and Ironmen that must surely be roaming the North.

Winterfell was now in Rickon’s hands, and he was barely more than a babe. Robb could not fathom what could compel Bran to leave the safety of their home. Had he decided to join the Watch? In some mad scheme to become a Black Knight, now that the path of a true knight was forever barred to him? Robb could think of no other reason that Bran would abandon Winterfell. If it was true, that his impressionable little brother had been convinced that he held no worth to House Stark, now that he was a cripple, then Robb would have whoever was responsible hanged.

For the time being, Robb wrote to the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, begging him to look out for Bran’s arrival, and to turn him away should he attempt to join. As King in the North, Robb promised the Watch five-hundred prisoners in Bran's stead. Mostly lowborn men, to take the Black for this favour. He also sent ravens to Ramsay Snow and House Mallister, asking that the men band together to secure the Moat. And when that job was done, they were to command Howland Reed to travel south with them. He would answer for his children’s conduct, to his King.

Bran’s loss also expedited another of Robb’s plans, whilst also altering his intended terms slightly. He took no joy in informing his mother of his intentions, knowing it would only bring her pain.

“I know you hold no love for Jon,” Robb began softly, after she had dried the tears from her cheeks.

Bran had long been her favoured child, and it had grieved her deeply to know that he was missing, with the situation in the North currently so tumultuous. She did not answer him, instead eying Robb suspiciously, but her silence was enough.

“You must know that my situation is perilous. Soon we are to march onto Lannisport, and ring Casterly Rock in a siege after it falls. The Rock has never been taken, and Tywin Lannister is not a force to be trifled with. I might not survive the encounter. I need to know that my men will fight on, and not sue for peace after my death.”

His mother closed her eyes, her face as pained as though Robb had dealt her a physical blow.

“You mean to legitimize Jon Snow.”

“I do,” Robb confirmed, “He is a warrior my men can rally behind. He has proven himself in battle, and they will follow him.”

“He is older than all your other brothers and sisters,” his mother finally replied, scorching Robb with the blazing anger in her eyes, “You would sign away their claim to Winterfell.”

“No,” Robb countered, as he had already thought long and hard upon this, “I will decree that Jon stands the last in line to inherit Winterfell, but he would be King.”

Robb was not a child any longer, and he could not seek his mother’s approval for all he undertook. However, he understood that marriage pacts were made for a reason. A woman’s only power was in her husband’s household, and once he was dead, her power came from being the mother of the new lord. Which was why Cersei Lannister had not merely packed up her dresses and returned to Casterly Rock when King Robert died. In her father’s household she held no sway, but in King’s Landing, she was the Dowager Queen and mother of the King.

But if there ever came a time when Jon was Lord of Winterfell, Catelyn Stark would never be welcome there again. Not after all the abusive words and frosty silences she had thrown at Jon over the years. There was a small part of Robb that was glad his mother must now rue her vicious behaviour. It would have cost her nothing to be kind to Jon. She need not have been a mother to him in order to be polite and civil. But she had not chosen that path, and now she must reap what she had sown.

“Jon will be my heir until a son is born to me. The heir to the Kingdom of the North and Trident,” Robb clarified, “I intend for him to inherit Winterfell behind any trueborn son Roslin gives me, but ahead of any daughters. If I die in battle, and my Queen births a daughter, I do not want the babe snatched from its mother’s arms in a bid to rule the North through the child.”

“You’ve given this great thought,” said his mother, “But have you thought on what might happen if you die, and Roslin births a son? What is there to stop Jon Snow seizing the crown, and killing your son?”

“Do you truly think him capable?” asked Robb scornfully, “Jon, who is ever our father’s son, put a babe to the sword? No, mother, do not speak to me of the treachery of bastards in the abstract. I speak of Jon in particular, who has grown beside me through boyhood and fought by my side.”

Lady Catelyn Stark opened her mouth, perhaps to rebuke him for speaking to her thus, in such a short manner, but closed it again without a word. Perhaps she realised he was no longer speaking to her as her son, but as her king.

“I have made my decision,” Robb concluded, “Jon is to be a Prince, the Crown Prince of my new Kingdom, and my son’s lord protector for Winterfell, if ever the time should come. All this I have outlined in my will. I intend to announce it once he returns. When Jon arrives in the Riverlands with Sansa and Arya, no man will question his legitimization.”

His mother shook her weary head.

“I still think it folly,” she said, “But I know my words will not move you. So long as your son’s place is assured, to inherit Winterfell if you fall, and Rickon after him if Bran does not return, I will not object. Outline the succession to me entirely, so that I understand it wholly.”

“For Winterfell, and Wardenship of the North, first comes a son if one is born to me: then Bran and Rickon, then my sisters," said Robb obediently, "If I have a daughter, she will follow after my brothers, before my sisters, then finally Jon. For the Kingdom in its entirety: Jon first, then my son, and so on with my brothers or daughter. I only bar my sisters from the succession of the Crown. I do not wish to raise another dynasty, in the name of some other House. I took this Kingdom by right of conquest, and those Houses will know no King but the King in the North, whose name is Stark.”

“But you will not bar your daughter outright, despite the same danger that she may face?” his mother immediately countered.

“There is a difference,” Robb protested, “Between a girl raised to be a Queen in her own right, and a lady who was taught from girlhood to be subservient to her husband. Sansa would bow to her husband’s wishes, and not protest to the Kingdom being held in his name. Arya would never consent to be Queen. She’s furious enough to be called a lady.”

His mother finally smiled at that, and Robb grinned in reply. He was glad that he had not fractured her completely, with his plans. The advice of Lady Stark had been invaluable in this war. She had given him wise counsel from the moment she returned from King’s Landing. The Tyrell contingent had given them both woe. Brienne of Tarth’s trial had been an irritation from start to finish, and he did not blame her for being tense, especially with the additional worrying news from Winterfell.

Brienne had allowed the proceedings of the trial to progress for two days, before she had given up in despair, and demanded a trial by combat. Robb and his fellow judges, Lord Tarly and Lord Westerling had heard from the principle witnesses; Lady Stark and Lady Brienne herself, who both described the same foul shadow as Renly’s murderer. As the accuser, Loras Tyrell also spoke, denouncing Brienne’s character, as an unnatural female warrior, a brutish woman obsessed with the late Lord of Storm’s End. Lords who had fled Stannis Baratheon’s service to join the Northern cause gave testimony also, on the Red Witch Melisandre of Asshai and her foul magics.

Throughout it all, Robb and the other judges listened from a raised dais in the Great Hall, Ghost and Grey Wind lying on either side of Robb’s chair, making their King a formidable sight. Especially since Robb had taken to wearing his crown. It was a menacing circlet of silver and iron, with small spikes fashioned in the style of tiny swords. Each hilt was decorated with a small jewel; diamonds and emeralds in a repeating pattern, for the grey and green of House Stark. A more feminine crown had been fashioned for Roslin, with the addition of sapphire stones, and sent to her in Riverrun. Robb knew she would look beautiful and elegant in it, and together they would make a stunning sight. The addition of a crown to his fiery locks certainly seemed to impress the Tyrells, Lady Margaery in particular.

After Brienne had bested Ser Loras in single combat (a ferocious, lengthy affair, that ended with Brienne’s sword at Ser Loras’ throat, and Mace Tyrell calling for mercy – which Robb granted), they held a feast to celebrate the end of the hostilities. Robb danced with Lady Margaery, and saw her beauty up close for the first time. It was the only time he truly regretted his hasty marriage to Roslin. Had he merely agreed to a betrothal, he could have broken it honourably for a match as significant as the daughter of another Great House.

Yet despite all her charms, Robb noticed Margaery leading him in conversation, flattering him with her saucy looks. The necklines of her dresses often dipped to almost her naval – something he would never have countenanced as her husband – and she simpered politely, without ever actually revealing anything. She was good at convincing a man she found him hopelessly enthralling, almost like a tavern whore would. He noticed the similarities between how the Tyrell rose acted and how the dangerous whores in Theon’s stories conducted themselves. The comparison turned Robb’s stomach. Margaery was the kind of girl who would lead a man by his nose (and other appendages) and never reveal her true intentions. Robb doubted she was still a maid. Having determined all this, Robb recanted, and was suddenly very glad he had married a woman as demure and gentle as Roslin. Poor Uncle Edmure would be ruled by his new wife within days of marriage, no doubt.

“I was so sorry to hear of Lady Sansa’s suffering,” Margaery said the night they danced for the first time, “I have heard a great deal how sweet and pious she was. I am very sorry to never have met her.”

“Thank you for your kind thoughts, Lady Margaery. My sister Sansa was ever a lady, fond of songs and dancing and needlework,” said Robb, “I think you would have been friends.”

“Oh, I am certain we would have been the very best of friends,” Margaery trilled, “Perhaps when she is found, she might wish to visit Highgarden. It is a beautiful castle, tall with many stained glass windows, and a huge rose garden. I am certain Sansa would find much joy there,”

“It sounds lovely, my lady,” Robb said politely.

“My brother Willas holds it in my father’s name, while we are at war,” she elaborated, “He is my father’s heir. But he was injured gravely in the lists, and now walks with the aid of a cane. But he is very sharp of wit, and keeps himself strong with long trails through the gardens, and hawking.”

“A noble persuit,” he replied. Robb had begun to understand by then that Margaery was fishing for knowledge on Sansa’s whereabouts, and admired the skilled manner in which Margaery nosed about the bush, rather than merely plucking the flower she was after.

It did not come as a surprise to Robb that the Tyrells were considering Sansa for the future Lady of Highgarden. Robb had already been informed that the Tyrells were growing desperate to find a wife for Mace’s lame heir, from his own mistress.


	6. opportunists

Despite the death of the lowborn prisoners, which lightened the mouths they would have to feed, their progress forward was still halted by strong headwinds, and pitching waves in Shipbreaker Bay. They drifted sluggishly, eating what supplies remained. After several days, the captain of the ship demanded that they resupply at the island of Tarth. He would not consent to turn the ship about, and sail toward the Riverlands without doing so. It was either Tarth or risking some port in Blackwater Bay or the Crownlands, territory completely under Lannister control. With Sansa a fugitive from the Crown, a valuable hostage the Queen had hoped to bargain with or utilize through marriage to control the North, there was no contest. No possibility could arise where Sansa was potentially wrestled from their hands. Jon would die first.

Tarth was a beautiful island that resided in glimmering blue water, an oasis of calm after the vigorous waves of Shipbreaker Bay. It shared its name with the principle House there, who ruled the island from Evenfall Hall. The Tarths had declared for Renly over Stannis with the majority of the other Stormlords, and for this reason Jon felt confident that they could announce themselves to its lord, and be offered his hospitality. To remove any temptation Lord Tarth might feel to reveal them to their enemies, for he did not know the outcome of Lady Catelyn’s parley with Renly Baratheon’s encampment, Sansa was disguised as a Septa, accompanying the Lady Rosamund.

The Lannister girls had at last been identified as the bastard Princess and her Lannister cousin, by Sansa, who was intimate with both of their faces. Mrycella was to remain on the ship the entire time they were docked. If she attempted to escape, or otherwise alert the islanders to her situation, she had been told in no uncertain terms what would happen to her cousin.

“One Lannister cub is enough for any man to wrestle,” said Theon, “Don’t think I won’t slit pretty Rosamund’s neck and toss her overboard, if you give me cause.”

“You wouldn’t dare, you barbarian!” Mrycella hissed, “She is valuable, worth more than her weight in gold to her lord father-”

“Robb Stark is my friend and brother,” Theon reminded her, “And he’s fucking the Westerlands as we speak. Razing your grandfather’s crops as he goes; seizing the mines for his own. If the son of the honourable Ned Stark is happy to piss on Twyin Lannister’s land, what do you think the son of Balon Greyjoy, the Lord Reaper of the Iron Islands, will do to your precious Lady Lannister of a lesser branch?”

Myrcella quietened at that. Her breast heaved with unexpressed fury, and elegant tears streamed down her face. The more she spoke to Theon, the more dire he painted her situation to be, with the ruthless repetition of a cornered beast, swiping at its attackers. Theon always accompanied his tirades and threats with a reminder to Mrycella of her bastard status. Which harked back to the unfavourable part of Jon’s youth with Theon. Looking back with maturity, Jon saw that being aware of his status, had become a kind of armour to him. Once he had become inured to the insult, the word held no more pain for Jon. For Jon there was no deceiving himself. He had never been hidden behind a false name and the veneer of respectability. Jon knew that he was base, and had embraced such. Were it not for his determination to prove Lady Catelyn wrong about her hatred of him for crimes he had not committed, Jon might never have attempted to uphold his father’s values, and become as savage as she feared.

Jon occasionally flexed against the shackles of honour. And in the rare occurrences he unleashed himself from those bonds, Jon reassured himself that his enemies would do far worse to him, were they in his place. Jaime’s quick execution, or the bloody battle and swift destruction of the extraneous prisoners, was preferable to slow torture. Or the prolonged beatings and isolation Sansa had suffered. If Theon didn’t curb his tongue around Mrycella in the coming days, however, Jon intended to compare him to the haughty Queen Cersei, to help stem Theon's hatred. Mrycella deserved to feel secure enough in her captivity, and not be greeted with death threats each morn. Besides, the more Theon threatened without accompanying action, the less weight his words held. He was spending the currency of the execution of the ship’s crew too quickly for Jon’s liking.

At least they were separated for the time being, when Jon, Theon, Sansa disguised as ‘Septa Ellyn’, and Lady Rosamund went ashore, with a handful of guards. The rest remained with Mrycella and the crew aboard the ship. Lord Tarth greeted them with bread and salt, and updated them on the news from the mainland; namely, that Renly Baratheon was dead, but those that followed him were now aligned with House Stark, including the hugely influential Tyrells.

“Some will call me false for not moving to align with the older Baratheon brother, now that the former Lord of Storm’s End has passed,” said the old lord, nicknamed the Evenstar, “But I cannot keep to the god of Lord Stannis’ red witch. They say she burned human sacrifices upon Dragonstone, and used foul magic to slay Renly.”

“We have missed much, during the undertaking of our solemn duty, it appears,” said Jon, “And it hardly seems worth it. Queen Cersei claims to have mislaid both my sisters, and my father’s bones besides.”

“Disgraceful,” said Lord Tarth, “The loss of your sisters is most abominable, and you have my sympathy. To compound the tragedy, Queen Cersei truly refused to return the bones of your father?”

“She did,” Jon confirmed, and refused to let his eyes flicker to Sansa, while he blatantly lied about her whereabouts.

To her credit, his demure sister sat in silence. She was as respectful as any Septa would be, with her head slightly dipped and her attention seemingly focused on her charge. Lady Rosamund worried her fingers through a silk handkerchief as they took tea together after dinner, with their genial host. She was acutely aware of her perilous position, and it took a sharp glare from Theon to have her drop her hands into her lap. Rosamund exuded nervousness, and Jon prayed that it was taken as shyness.

“Please relay my well wishes to King Robb. I think I speak for many, when I say we hope the gods smile down upon House Stark, after the trials you have endured. And after the losses Lord Eddard suffered during the Mad King’s rein, too.”

Jon nodded, while Theon expressed their gratitude, and promised to pass on Lord Tarth’s affections to Robb. The old lord shook his head in sympathy, and Jon became aware of the odd sensation that Lord Tarth might be entirely genuine. Jon wondered if he had ever met an honest man, save for his Father. He marvelled at the chance that he would meet such a man now, just after noble Ned Stark was gone forever. Perhaps it was the gods’ way of reminding Jon, of whom he should be emulating, after the atrocities he had lately been involved in on land and sea.

“The Gods are good, Lord Tarth,” said Sansa, in a convincing display of religious fervour, “They will send Seven Blessings upon House Stark, if you pray for it.”

“And indeed I shall, Septa,” Lord Tarth assured them, “These lucky girls survived a shipwreck, you said?”

He turned again to Jon and Theon, as dismissive of a Septa as they had hoped for. The choice of deception had been Sansa’s. While Theon had suggested a lady-in-waiting, it had been Sansa who pointed out that a Septa’s face would be forgotten in lieu of the drab clothes they wore. She had fashioned an ugly approximation from a sail that had been damaged in the battle, always adept with her needle and thread, and was now swamped in a stained, off-white dress and cowl that covered her red hair.

“Aye,” said Jon, in response to Lord Tarth’s enquiry, “We found Lady Rosamund and her Septa, floating on parts of the wreckage, barely clinging to life.”

“Extraordinary,” exclaimed Selwyn Tarth, scrutinising Rosamund again.

Jon bristled at that shrewd look, while Theon clenched his teeth. But there was nought he could do if the old man saw through their falsehood. Lord Tarth was politic enough not to point out the deception while they were still in his company.

“I prayed until my lips were numb, for the Seven to deliver us,” said Sansa in a prim voice, “For the Mother to watch over us, the Warrior to lend us his strength, the Maiden to spare us and the Crone to give us the wisdom we needed to survive. But it was the Father who judged us and found us worthy. He sent honest men to rescue us, and turned the Stranger from our door.”

“Only the Smith was absent in your prayers, Septa,” Rosamund quipped, and was rewarded with a fierce glare from Sansa.

“Of course not,” she snapped, “The Smith gave us the ingenuity to clasp onto the floating wood, to which we owe our survival. When I can acquire another copy of the Seven Pointed Star, you will learn that the gods are not mocked.”

“Please, Septa, take my copy,” said Lord Tarth, “It would be my privilege to assist you, in this time of need.”

“You are too kind, far too kind, my lord,” Sansa simpered, “I could not accept a gift so fine, from a lord no less. These hands are not worthy to turn the pages of your own personal copy of the Seven Pointed Star.”

The kindly old lord smiled broadly, the corners of his eyes crinkling with genuine pleasure at Sansa’s humble affectations.

“I will hear no more denials, the deed has been decided,” said Lord Tarth, with a clap of his hands, “And now, to bed, I think. You have had a long ordeal my ladies, and many days at sea, fine sers. In the morn you may send your ravens, and I will see about getting you fresh fruits and vegetables for your onward journey.”

Lord Tarth was as good as his word, and they divvied up the rooms differently than he suggested once he was gone. Sansa and Rosamund shared a room, with a guard posted without, to be rotated throughout the night. Jon and Theon retired to rooms of their own, but Jon was not surprised when Theon joined him a few hours later.

“I can’t fucking sleep,” he groused, “You think it would be easy, the first featherbed in bloody moons. You got any wine in here? I’ve run out.”

He pottered about in the room, poking his nose into the drawers of a chest, and sniffing at the unlit candles above the glowing fireplace. Jon eyed him fondly for a moment, reminded of Ghost as a curious pup.

“Shut up,” he said, flipping over the corner of his bedcovers.

They were thick embroidered blankets instead of the familiar furs in the North. He’d never shared a bed with Theon, without the presence of Robb there too, but it could hardly be any different from the nights he’d wake from a bad dream and sneak into his older brother’s room for comfort. Robb would always flip back the furs and wrap him up in a warm embrace, and Jon would drift off into more peaceful dreams.

“You’d better not hoard the covers. And if you snore, I’m throwing you out.”

“Why, Snow,” Theon said mischievously, “If I knew it was this easy to get into your bed-”

“Another word, and you can curl up by the fire like Ghost would,” Jon grumbled, his fondness quickly fading, and he rolled over.

Theon chuckled like a green boy, but did not try his luck further. He leapt onto the featherbed and snuggled into the ample space beside Jon, and set about stinging him with his icy feet.

“Useless clod, get your freezing feet away,” hissed Jon, and when Theon only laughed again, considered smothering him with his pillow.

When the cheerful sun blazed in the clear morning sky, Jon woke to Sansa at the foot of his bed, and Theon flopped on his back, mouth open as he snored like a hibernating bear. Sansa giggled at the sound. Jon huffed and elbowed Theon awake. The older boy snorted and smacked at him, grumpy to be roused without cause.

“I did not want to break our fast without you,” said Sansa, “Lord Tarth might impart something of note.”

“Good idea,” said Jon, “We’ll dress and meet you-”

“Fuck, urgh- bastard! Others take you-” Theon grumbled vulgarly.

He continued to batter Jon’s hands away, as Jon attempted to push him into seated position and oust him. As usual, Theon proved insensible and as stubborn as a mule.

“One of you shall suffice, I think, Jon,” Sansa smirked, so Jon ceased his attempts, refraining from wasting any more time on a lost cause.

Theon was already asleep again by the time they alighted the room. Sansa had opted to turn her back while Jon dressed. She admired aloud the unusual décor of the unfamiliar keep. In Jon’s room, this featured painted stone; pale blue with washed white edges, and delicate depictions of birds in various states upon the blue. Jon hadn’t gotten a good look the night before, and he marvelled at it alongside his sweet sister. Later, he joined Sansa in complimenting their host on the detailed and refined work, as they broke their fast.

After their fill, Sansa dragged Rosamund to the Sept to pray, while Jon was taken on a tour of the keep. He and Lord Tarth took a leisurely route to the rookery. Evenfall Hall was a light, airy sort of a keep, short in stature but beautiful to behold, with modern defences and well maintained stonework. Jon was impressed by the warmth and bright light throughout the castle, even in the thin corridors and smaller rooms. It was easy for Jon to admire in words, to the delight of his host.

The tapestries were faded, and the keep lacked a woman’s touch, for Lord Tarth had no wife. Nor any sons, only an absent daughter. But the maids smiled freely and bobbed into curtseys, and the men-at-arms puffed up in pride when Jon strode past. This was a happy keep of summer folk, untouched yet by the tragedy of the war. Jon wondered how long that would continue to last. But he was pleased at least that Lord Tarth seemed content to follow the Stormlords who were aligning themselves with House Stark. He also suspected Lord Tarth might be sizing him up as a potential match for his daughter, whom it was stressed was close to Jon’s age and very Northern in her pursuit of the sword. Jon smiled politely but did not enquire further, despite the old man’s prodding.

The rookery, when at last they came to it, was not as impressive as Winterfell’s. But that was to be expected. House Stark were a Great House, and thus maintained many ravens, and kept meticulous records of hundreds of letters. They were dutifully copied out by Maester Luwin when the original ink faded, and the parchment grew brittle. It was in the rookery that Theon finally joined them, and they handed the letters they had penned in the privacy of their own rooms, to the Maester of House Tarth. Looking out at the blazing blue sky, above the famous sapphire water of Tarth, Jon realised that he had come to an accordance with his childhood enemy, and together they watched dark feathers against the bright sun, winging their words to Robb.


	7. lechers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For clarification: yes, all of this chapter takes place before the Tyrells arrive. It should be obvious in the text, but you never know.

Robb snuffed out a candle that had melted out of its holder and had sealed itself to the shelf below in a pool of yellowy wax. He barely noticed the twinge from singeing his skin as he pinched it out. From the featherbed, his mistress watched his progress about the room, as Robb shucked his cloak and began to work on his boots. She lazed against the pillows, already under the covers and stripped down to her slip. Her warm brown eyes watched him from underneath her long blonde hair, with was straight in the day but fluffed up now, from being coiled about her head in elaborate braids. Her hair was not the hated golden yellow of the Lannisters, but a cooler shade; pale and honest like the weak sun during a Northern winter, and she was beautiful.

Having remained steadfast to his marriage vows against Jeyne's efforts, Robb felt a twinge of guilt that he had later given in so thoroughly. Jeyne was a meek mouse that Robb found easy to set aside, but that did not mean he had not indulged himself before her. There was little that curbed a man hungering lustfully after the heat of battle. After they had taken Ashemark, the first significant holdfast in the West that he had conquered, Robb did not deny himself. There were ways and means that whores used to prevent a child. Robb knew this because Theon knew it. There was much Theon had shared of his adventures in Winter Town when Robb was still a boy.

Now that he was a man grown, Robb put Theon’s techniques to good use. A kitchen maid was the first to benefit from his attentions, which were more confident since he had fumbled his way into some measure of skill in Roslin’s bed. On the hunt through Ashemark, Robb had found a pretty girl, to-ing and fro-ing from the kitchens to the great hall, carrying trays of food and flagons of ale to feed his hungry men, who were still debasing the grand keep with their unwashed presence. Their host, Lord Marbrand, was most displeased by the hoards of uncouth Northmen occupying his castle. But since he was locked in his chambers as a valued hostage, there was little he could do about it.

Meanwhile, Robb perfected his execution of the Lord’s Kiss on the kitchen maid’s cunt, in a shadowy alcove behind a tapestry. His head was beneath her skirts while his men ate through the castle’s ample supplies. The buxom maid whined, her brown curls crunched against the stone, and Robb flexed his fingers about her delicate ankle, which rested on his right shoulder. His other hand was tangled in her skirts, preventing himself from overheating by being swamped beneath them while he worked. He licked between her soft, wet lower lips and she howled, scratching her nails against the stone. Evidently her wailing attracted someone’s attention, because the tapestry twitched. Some curious guardsman caught an eyeful of the debauchery as the maid sobbed out her peak. Robb mumbled out several curses which were muffled against the girl’s cunt, aimed at their voyeur, who swore and beseeched the gods in reply, but let the curtain fall back into place.

After drying his lips with a swipe of his hand, Robb was pulled up into a hearty kiss by the grateful girl. She helped him unlace his breeches far enough to enjoy the feel of her petite hand. Even such a small hand had a powerful grip, and she brought him to completion with confident tugs. Robb spent his seed all over his breeches and her skirts, which were still rucked up about her thighs. She helped clean him up with her ragged dress, then they parted ways with secretive, satisfied smiles.

One successful encounter made Robb bolder. So when he came across the tent of a camp follower, during his rounds to check upon the state of his men, in the encampment outside the keep, he noted the place. The whore gave no indication of recognition when Robb visited her, for that was before he had received his crown, so if she knew his face, it was only as yet another passing lord she had glimpsed. Now in full view of him as a customer, the dark-haired, olive skinned woman who was thin as a rake with heavy, smoky eyes, calculated his wealth and named her price. Though his coin purse was far heavier, than she anticipated, he was careful to act as though she were costly, not wishing to reveal his identity if he did not have to. He fucked her thoroughly, pleased at her throaty, exotic moans and the sultry sound of her voice and unusual accent.

“Where are you from?” Robb asked, lazing among her luxurious sheets afterward.

“Lorath, my lord,” she replied, taking a sip from the wine cup they were sharing, “A grey place that lacks in beauty. I came here to find it.”

“You carry enough beauty for all of Lorath, I should think,” Robb countered.

She grinned, and he reckoned it was as wolfish as Robb’s own victory smiles.

“My lord is a flatterer,” she said, “With words as sweet as honey.”

Robb took the wine from her and raised it to his own lips, before answering; “Are they working?”

She laughed, then climbed atop him, grinding her hips onto his. Robb set aside the goblet before it spilled, and groaned when she used her talented hands to slip him inside of her. He’d never taken a girl while on his back before, and it was a revelation to watch her teats bounce as he thrust his hips upward and lifted his knees to aid her balance.

After their tryst was finally done, Robb asked where he might acquire the tincture she took, to prevent pregnancy. The whore gave him a hard, quizzical look, but relented. She sold him a small packet of herbs, carefully describing the mixing process. Diligently copying the remedy down in his solar, Robb attached the small parchment to his packet of moon tea with a pin. Then it was pushed into his chest of belongings and promptly forgotten.

All of this eventually gave Robb the gall to pursue a highborn lady. Though it had not solidified in his head entirely that she should be his goal (for Robb was busy planning his attack on the Crag at that point), by the time he had pushed Jeyne’s attentions away, he remembered the pack of moon tea and cursed. But her doe eyes across the top table reminded him that she was desperate for longing of him. No good could come of a union between them, because Jeyne was the kind of girl who would fall in love with him. Robb needed to sate his lusts with someone less needy and less kind; another mercenary, like him.

Robb had brought hostages from every keep he had conquered, Ashemark included. Lady Perra Marbrand was a beautiful, icy girl who gave none of the Northmen a second look, Robb included. He spent an afternoon just watching her. She took tea with Jeyne and Lady Westerling, lit a candle in the Sept before the Father, and prayed with her ladies (no doubt wishing for Robb to be judged harshly and die in battle, freeing her family’s land from his ambitions). They held a feast that evening, for the men to unwind and enjoy merriment, with the excuse that Lady Catelyn was returning with the Tyrells. Robb watched as Lady Perra supped with her ladies, Lady Sera Kenning and Lady Myrielle Lannister. The latter of whom hated them particularly ferociously because her father, Ser Stafford, had died in the Battle of Oxcross. Lady Myriella was kin to Tywin Lannister himself, and tied again through marriage, as her father was brother to Joanna Lannister, Lord Tywin’s late wife.

She was a valuable hostage, one of the most valuable Robb had, since Ser Jaime died. Lady Myrielle had the great misfortune to be visiting at Ashemark with her friend Lady Perra, when the hostilities initially broke out. Her father had ordered her to remain at Ashemark because he could not spare the men to escort her home. This proved unwise though her father had no way of knowing Robb would take the other keep, while the Golden Tooth remained untouched. Ser Stafford felt secure enough in the westerlands, that he did not even post sentries, as he thought there was no way east unless passing the Tooth.

Robb had proved the dolt wrong however, by following Grey Wind and Ghost through a hidden goat track, wide enough for the men, riding single file. They slipped around the Tooth in the night, and fell upon Stafford’s startled army at Oxcross, completely annihilating them. Robb took other valuable hostages like Willem and Martyn Lannister, and Tion Frey there.

There were reports of a gathering force in Harrenhal and Duskendale from House Mooton, who advised that they could not hope to hold out against the Lannister forces on two fronts. This resulted in Robb sending a third of his foot with Lord Bolton, to take Harrenhal in his name if possible. Bolton succeeded, and stationed a garrison at Maidenpool, to shore up House Mooton’s defences against the Lannisters gathering at Duskendale. Robb took the Crag, and set about organising his men and their future attempt on Lannisport, before he received word to wait for the Tyrells to arrive. Stymied, Robb was forced to wait, and fill his time reassuring his lords, and organising the terms of surrender for the prisoners he had taken. Some swore themselves to House Stark like the Westerlings, which was a decisive achievement, so long as it lasted. Robb intended to take Jeyne Westerling and her brother Raynald along on his campaign, to keep the Westerlings feal when the troops moved on.

There was little else for Robb to do with his days other than charm his lords, and intimidate those that might seek to thwart him if given a chance, by walking the Crag accompanied by the direwolves, who set men a-tremble. It was here that Robb remembered the moon tea, and re-assessed the pretty highborn ladies within his reach. His mother would hit him with her open fist if she thought he was growing as lusty and lascivious as the Late Lord Frey. Robb had no desire to draw comparisons with that decrepit man, but he was bored. He ignored Myrielle Lannister, who would kill him in his sleep given her chance, and Sera Kenning who was too young in years to stir his blood. That left Jeyne Westerling, who Robb had already dismissed as too yearning, and her ladies, who were less comely than the striking Perra Marbrand, with her brown eyes contrasting against her pale gold hair.

Robb caught her eye and held it, inviting her to dance at the feast, and jealously preventing her from swapping partners at the close of one set. He treaded the boards with Perra to three separate dances, and scorched her with his looks besides. He was not certain his attentions were understood or appreciated, but for the bold look she gave him toward the end of the eve, when Robb was being regaled by bawdy tales from the Smalljon. Robb chuckled heartily, and saw that Perra was watching him. He met her eye with a smirk. She turned her head toward the door in a gentle movement, before looking at Robb again. He raised and eyebrow mischeviously, and jerked his head in agreement.

Lady Perra Marbrand slipped from the room with the hauty, icy countenance of a woman thoroughly unimpressed by her surroundings, and squeaked when Robb caught up to her outside of her borrowed chambers. He wrapped his arms about her waist and kissed her hungrily. She kissed him back, though clumsily, and Robb realised for all her confident assent she was still a maiden. Perra seemed to confirm it when she pressed a hand to his chest and refused to allow him into her chamber, despite his pout.

When she had shut the door firmly, Robb grinned to himself and wondered if this was how Grey Wind felt, when he was on the hunt for prey. He had ample chance to find out; his dreams were filled with the scent of wet fur and mud, men in their metal suits and the blood on their steel fangs. At night, Robb ran with his silent, snow-white brother at his side, the two of them occasionally catching scent of their proud sister on the wind. One night, Ghost caught wind of another scent, and raced to follow it. He was running swiftly, almost too fast for Grey Wind to catch, as he had been far away, enjoying his kill when Ghost left. Grey Wind abandoned his meal, following his brother’s trail with warning growls. Men cursed and leapt out of his way but Grey Wind did not see them, barrelling down on his disobedient brother. Ghost was momentarily distracted by their scuffle, but not deterred, and once extracted from Grey Wind, set off again.

Using his superior speed, Grey Wind gained on his brother and barred Ghost’s progress with a ferocious snarl. Affronted, Ghost was forced to slide to an ungraceful halt, answering Grey Wind with a vicious snap of his teeth, his hackles raised. Grey Wind lunged at his throat and Robb woke to the tremendous boom of a pounding fist upon his door.

“Your grace- come quick! The wolves, they mean to kill one another-” a man yelled out in fright.

Robb threw a cloak on and yanked on his breeches and boots, grabbing at his sword at the last moment. He ran, overtaking his guide, knowing intuitively where to go. Between the tents, surrounded by nervous men with swords and torches held aloft, Ghost and Grey Wind were locked in their stand-off, having separated once again. Ghost was sporting a fresh wound on his neck, while Grey Wind’s bloody muzzle reflected where it had come from. Robb charged between the wolves, the only man not too terrified to do so.

“What is the meaning of this?” he roared, looking first to his own direwolf who barked at him, a menacing sound from the jaws of a wolf.

He turned to Ghost, whose muzzle was still crinkled up in a horrifying snarl. Grey Wind attempted to circumvent Robb, who reached up a hand and smacked him roughly on the nose. Offended, Grey Wind reared back and paced away, agitated. Ghost took this as an opportunity to continue his objective, and began to pad away.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Robb demanded, and Grey Wind snarled at Ghost from behind Robb’s back as though in support.

Ghost ignored them both, until Robb stepped directly into his path and reached for his ear. But Ghost was not bound to him as Grey Wind was and pulled away before Robb’s flesh could connect with his own. Ghost snorted at him silently.

“What is going on?” Robb asked, bewildered.

He was talking to Grey Wind, but it was a Westerling man that answered him;

“They went mad, your grace!” he exclaimed, “The Northmen said you would put us to the sword if we shot them with arrows.”

“I wouldn’t afford you that courtesy,” said Robb, “I would have you hung and quartered.”

The man gulped audibly and said no more, while Grey Wind used Robb’s momentary distraction to lunge at his brother again. Before he could get close enough to connect, Robb shouted; “Enough!” and his eyes rolled back into his head where he stood, turning milk-white to the frightened onlookers. Grey Wind’s golden eyes flashed white for a moment, before the beast became placid, and lay obediently at the king’s feet.

“Y-your grace?” called out a brave Riverman, and Robb came back to his own skin, his Tully blue eyes rolling back to take in the terrified men who were now looking at him rather than the wolves.

Ghost threw back his head in a silent imitation of a howl. He had never made a sound, save for light snuffles and snarls, and that did not change. But Grey Wind took up the mantel for him, and howled loudly, long and mournful into the clouded night, where only the barest sliver of moon was visible.

Robb shivered, suddenly cold beneath his cloak, reminding him of the hasty manner in which he dressed. Then he stiffened, mere moments before he heard it; the answering howl of another wolf, from somewhere within hearing distance.

“This is what all the fuss was about?” said Robb, glaring at Grey Wind, who was busily licking the blood from his maw.

Grey Wind was unrepentant. In his mind, Robb had learnt that Grey Wind thought Ghost was being disobedient by abandoning his charge, even for such a joyful cause. Robb huffed, displeased to be roused from sleep over such shenanigans.

“Go and fetch her, Ghost,” said Robb, “It seems you had the right of it. She might have been shot by frightened Westermen otherwise.”

He aimed a glare in the direction of the Westerling soldier who had spoken to him before, who shrunk back under Robb’s eye. Ghost aimed a final huff in Grey Wind’s direction, just like Arya would whenever she won an argument.

Robb tugged Grey Wind on the ear and his own wolf followed him back to the Crag, leaving him at the gate. As he continued to the guest chambers, Robb caught a flash of familiar yellow hair. The door to Perra Marbrand’s room was open when he tried it, and Robb’s face melted into a satisfied snarl of his own as he locked it from within.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, Robb fucked Shae XD
> 
> I don't know if I'll be able to write a chapter tomorrow, as I'm back to work after a week off but I'll try :) Thank you to everyone who gave kudos and bookmarked, but especially to those commented with their enthusiasm and encouragement. I really appreciate it! Authors love comments, its all the reward we fanfic writers get for our hard work :)


	8. savages

The encampment was filled with renewed vigour, as the foot began to pack up the tents, aided by squires who had already finished polishing their master’s armour. Knights secured their belongings and tended to their horses, and all between them scurried smiths and fletchers, arrowrights and carpenters, heaving their hefty tools onto the back of carts. Sand and broken rocks were poured over the muddiest parts of the roads, which had turned to quagmires and bogs under the march of hundreds of pounding feet.

Robb walked through the commotion magnanimously, untouched by the zeal and passion of his bannermen and sworn allies. At his back were the three united direwolves of House Stark, coats of white and grey and brindle all brushed to perfection and gleaming in the light of the noonday sun. Men gave them an even wider berth since Nymeria had trotted mysteriously into their camp one night, following Ghost. Robb was still accompanied at a distance by his highborn guard of warriors, however, a show of support from the Northmen.

This flurry of activity had been stirred by the final agreement with the Tyrells, signed and toasted at last. His lady mother was no longer speaking to Robb, and he suspected she would not do so until she held her daughter in her arms. She had pleaded with him to allow her to travel with the troops to Harrenhal. Robb had sent Jon and Theon there, to deliver Sansa to the closest safe castle, rather than risk the longer journey to Riverrun.

But Robb had been firm in his orders to send his mother with the smaller Tyrell party travelling to Riverrun for Lady Margaery’s wedding. Their path was cleared, the way north-east a mostly secure route by land for large numbers. The border was still contentious. Robb did not hold the Tooth, and there had been reports of another band of roaming mercenaries, the Brotherhood Without Banners but the coast still held more peril for travellers.

Though the Tully lands around Riverrun were secure, and House Tully were their kin, the enemy troops at Duskendale told Robb a cautionary tale. If Jon took Sansa to Riverrun, which had been the initial plan before their correspondence from Tarth, they would be travelling without the might of mounted knights, far too close to the Lannister forces. Instead, they were to make for the Stark outpost at Harrenhal.

As Robb formulated these plans, thought again of Ser Stafford, bidding his daughter to remain in place with trusted allies rather than risking the road to the Tooth. He wondered if he was following in the man’s footsteps, but quickly dismissed the idea. Lord Bolton was not the type of man to test the gods devotion, by not posting sentries. He would know the prestige of being entrusted with his king’s sister, and Jon would be there besides. Theon, Robb had other plans for, but he intended to wait until they were all safely in Harrenhal before he sent word of them.

While the vast majority were focused on the splitting of the combined army, Robb’s attention had now turned to Lannisport, and the men who had committed themselves to assisting him take it. The Reach were bringing the glorious Redwyne fleet up through the Sunset Sea, to lay waste to the coast from Feastfires to Lannisport. A smaller group of ships were to break from the main armada to take Fair Isle, so House Farman couldn’t band together with House Kenning in an attempt to break the siege on the Rock from across the straits. Once Lannisport was aflame and the Rock was under siege, the majority of the Westerlands would be under his control. He expected House Kenning of Kayce to surrender quickly after that because they would be ringed on all sides, and Robb held Lady Sera Kenning hostage besides.

All of his plans would be for nought if they failed to take Lannisport, however. But Robb was not afraid on that front, with the combined might of the Stark-Tully-Tyrell alliance, supported by large numbers from the Freys, Karstarks, Tarlys and prominent Stormlords. But it was not enough for Robb, who was furious that his Aunt Lysa had ignored the pleas for aid he had sent via Patrek Mallister, who wrote to Robb that she was unmoved.

“She fears for her son’s life in a rabid fashion,” Robb read aloud in disgust to Perra, who lounged in his bed with a cup of summerwine in her delicate hands.

Robb tossed aside the letter with frustration. “This cannot be allowed to continue. Lysa is my aunt by blood, and she sullies the honour of the Vale by refusing to take a stake in this war. Patrek was convinced that the other Vale Houses he supped with were ashamed not to come to my father’s aid, when it might have made a difference.”

“So what will you do?” questioned Perra, “You can hardly lay siege to the entire Vale.”

“Can’t I?” mused Robb, “I have found that Kingdoms with many knights are very belligerent when their honour and chivalry is called into question. If I cannot move Lysa with words, I will shame her instead.”

And Robb had been as good as his word. He handed a decree to the Maester of House Westerling, and gave him additional scribes in the form of young pages and squires, to copy the required stack of declarations. His mother had been incensed when she learnt of it, storming his chambers unannounced.

“What is this?” she shouted, brandishing the small parchment at Robb, who knew immediately what it must be.

He moved to take it from her outstretched hand but she snatched it away to read aloud herself in an acidic tone of disbelief:

“_I declare that no man from the Vale, a Kingdom whose honour and valour appears to have died with the venerable Jon Arryn, shall find bread and salt in the Riverlands or the North, from this day forth. This decree will stand in perpetuity, unless the knights of the Vale prove my words false, and their forces are gathered and waiting to join me. Or perhaps when I finish skinning lion pelts, I might find I have acquired a taste for falcon. Robb of House Stark, King in the North and of the Trident._”

She stood gaping at him, her eyes flashing in fury.

“You dare to provoke another kingdom, when you already face a war on three fronts. With your brothers and sisters scattered into the winds besides?” she hissed, “What absolute foolishness is this? Have you taken leave of all sense? To call all the Valemen craven!”

“And I will say it again, if I have to. I will raze their borders, from the Neck to Harroway’s Town!” Robb shouted, “And all along the Fingers to the Bay of Crabs, I will ring them with the Redwyne fleet. And when winter comes, they will starve!”

“Lysa Arryn is my sister-”

“And the Others take her!” Robb yelled, “She’s practically an oathbreaker. Family, Duty, Honour; are they not the words of your father’s House? Your sister seems to have none of them.”

His mother shook her head in despair. “You are mad, if you believe this scheme will work. You cannot cut off an entire kingdom.”

Robb smiled, a savage, feral thing like the baring of a wolf’s teeth.

“I am a conqueror, mother. And if I wish it, it will be so.”

He paused to take in the trembling of her hands, and the tears threatening to spill from her eyes. He pondered if his mother truly thought him at the brink of insanity, or perhaps as arrogant and rash as his Uncle Brandon. But Robb would not ride out to face the a man like the Mad King alone. At his back stood a mighty army, and direwolves lay at his feet.

She left his solar without another word. This would come to be the last conversation Robb and his mother shared until she left with the party making for her childhood home. The river between them had widened too much.

Even if Lady Catelyn had managed to convince him to alter his course, it was too late. Robb had already ordered the letters to be sent, to every House in the Vale. Even to the tiny insignificant ones along the Fingers, and to all the Houses in the Riverlands besides. To the Riverlands and the North, Robb had decreed that any guests from the Vale who had remained there, when the hostilities erupted into war, were now to be held as hostages. Let the Vale keep singing their song of neutrality now, if they dared.

Lysa Arryn could continue to thwart House Arryn from fighting, as was her right as their lady while her son was not of age. But she would face tremendous pressure from the Lords of the Vale now, who were very proud of their knightly heritage. A public attack on their honour, and the denial of guest right to any Vale House that needed to pass through Robb's territories, was a great insult and indignity.

Robb’s decree would not bar travellers through the Riverlands entire. But to force the highborn to sleep only at infrequent inns and camp along the Kingsroad otherwise, as a hedge knight would, was a great humiliation. Supping at another’s House was how the highborn forged friendships, sometimes leading to fosterings or betrothals. To deny the Vale Houses that right was an immense imposition. It would make the North, and more importantly the neighbouring Riverlands, entirely hostile territory to them, even in peacetime.

Notwithstanding the frost between them, Robb was apprehensive for his mother’s safety and state of mind. She was desperate to see that Sansa was well with her own eyes, exasperated by the fact that Jon and Theon’s letters had confirmed that Arya had been missing since his father’s imprisonment. Robb did not fault his mother for her devotion to her children. Yet he needed confirmation that she would not attempt to defy his orders, and make for Harrenhal without his leave. It would be a strategic weakness for his family to be in one singular position, besides the diplomatic reasons Robb needed his mother to remain charming the Tyrells at Riverrun. It was for this reason that Robb had left Edmure in charge of the Riverlands, rather than allowing him to bring his remaining forces into the West.

Edmure Tully had lured the Mountain into a trap of Robb’s making. Though the Tully force had lost many men in the effort, the great brute of House Clegane had ultimately been felled. The Mountain’s men had scattered, and Rivermen had been hunting them down since. Robb had lately received word by rider that the last of Clegane’s men was believed dead. But the other men, the Brotherhood Without Banners, still had get to be dealt with, and to that end, Robb had Brienne take tea with him in his solar.

“You have been very diligent in your duties regarding the protection of my mother,” said Robb, “And I commend you for it.”

Brienne, who looked amusingly uncomfortable sat at his small table, with a tiny tea cup in her hands, smiled in pleasant surprise.

“I have done no more than my duty, your grace,” she said.

“I thank you for it, all the same,” said Robb, “Your father is Lord Tarth, of the famous sapphire isle, it is not, my lady?”

Brienne sat up briskly, the armour she still wore clanking as she moved.

“He is, your grace,” Brienne confirmed, “Named the Evenstar, after the fashion of my ancestors.”

“A lovely title,” Robb said with a smile, “I only confirm such, because he has written to me, Lady Brienne. He does not appear to realise you are in my mother’s service. I thought perhaps you may like to see his words for yourself.”

Brienne of Tarth blinked at him in confusion, clearly taken aback by Robb’s words. Robb handed the missive to her, which had helped formulate so many of Robb’s plans. It had been thoroughly checked for any kind of deception or code. Lord Selwyn had not focused on his daughter, save for a brief mention that he had last heard of her appointment to Renly’s Rainbow Guard and a polite enquiry after her health, if Robb had knowledge of it. It appeared that Loras’ former accusation of Brienne had not yet reached Tarth. Brienne read the missive carefully, her large, mannish hands holding the parchment with surprising delicacy.

“Furthermore,” Robb continued, “I had news from Theon, who expanded on their escape from King’s Landing. They found Sansa during the riots. She somehow swore the Mountain's brother, Sandor Clegane, into her service, during their escape. The Hound has apparently been sparring daily with Theon and Jon.”

“The Hound was ever loyal to the Lannisters, your grace!” said Brienne in shock, “It could be a trap, a lure of some sort!”

“I thought as much,” Robb confessed, “But Theon thinks not. He mentioned something about the Hound attempting to save Sansa from Jon, before he was informed who Jon is.”

Brienne finally set down the letter. Her face silently asked him why he was sharing this knowledge with her.

“I thought you might wish reassure your father that you are well,” said Robb, “And be secure in the knowledge that my sister will be well protected on her way to Harrenhal. My mother worries without cause. As you can see, your father has committed fifteen ships to our cause, to escort them to Maidenpool and await my instruction there.”

Brienne nodded decisively. “I understand completely, your grace.”

They were interrupted before Robb could dismiss her, by the old maester, who was announced and came hurrying into the room as fast as his old legs could carry him.

“Your grace, there is dire news from the North,” said the old man, still puffing and panting.

Robb leapt to his feet in alarm.

“What- tell me!” Robb barked, “Is it Bran?”

“Of Prince Brandon, there is no word, your grace,” said the maester, “I speak of White Harbour.”

He passed the message to Robb, who took the time to read the words in their entirety before he set down the missive. Then he let out a shout that startled Brienne so hard she finched and reached for her sword. Robb stood panting for a long moment, before he paced across the room to his war map, spread across the desk. It was littered with wooden icons, carved into the sigils of various Houses. This was where Robb played out his strategic musings. He reached forward, past the various groupings in the West and Riverlands, high up into the North. Robb grasped the wooden merman of House Manderly set at White Harbour, and toppled it. He took a Lannister piece from King’s Landing, and placed it in the Shivering Sea.

“I’ll have to call a carpenter to carve another addition,” said Robb numbly, “A spear with skulls dangling. Tywin Lannister has hired the fucking Golden Company.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You didn't think Robb was going to just keep winning without any pushback from Tywin, did you? ;)
> 
> We have officially left canon in the rear-view mirror! Watch this space for the sequel: 'warlords', coming soon!


End file.
